


Doctors and Patience

by SirKai



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Armchair Therapy, M/M, MTMTE, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Therapy, more than meets the eye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirKai/pseuds/SirKai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An emotionally compromised Prowl is assigned to therapy sessions with Rung, to discuss a damaged relationship from millions of years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctors and Patience

**Author's Note:**

> -This work contains severe spoilers for up to More Than Meets the Eye vol. 14  
> -This work is not in any way meant to be indicative of what a standard or effective real life therapy session might be

The door slides open, revealing the neat and pristine office. The orange afternoon sun is bleeding through the half-blinded windows, and framing the doctor behind the desk in a very dramatic way. I dislike that. 

The doctor is sitting behind his wide desk. He looks up at me.

“Afternoon, Prowl,” he greets. His voice is quite high pitched. Rung always begins sessions with an especially attractive tone, most likely to make his patients feel more comfortable. I do sense a brief influx of elation.

“Hello,” I reply. I step inside and the door automatically shuts behind me. “Close your blinds. Please.”

Rung raises one of his very distinctly modeled eyebrows at me. “Do you have privacy concerns?”

I nod at him as I approach the center of the room. 

“Very well,” Rung says, and he lifts a small remote from his desk and points it over his shoulder with a click, and the blinds slowly squeeze out any traces of natural light. He doesn’t even have to leave his white-and-orange chair.

The psychiatrist knows I dislike open windows. I have always opted for evening sessions where he traditionally keeps the blinds tightly shut, but today’s session could only be afforded an afternoon appointment (that was his claim at least). The chair is different from the previous sessions, and it is placed in the center of room; farther from Rung than usual. A number of loose objects are missing, including Rung’s model ships that are typically on display. His desk is also bolted to the floor.

He wants the room to make me uncomfortable in an effort to make himself appear more palatable to confide in. And he's likely worried how I'll react. I underestimated how devious he is.

Rung flicks on his desk lamp to illuminate his work area. It makes the rest of the room slightly more visible. “Why don’t you have a seat?” He makes an offering motion at the single chair in the middle of the room.

“Why did you change your office?” I ask as I shift around to sit in the chair. It’s a wasted inquiry. I already know the reasons and answers, but these... functions seem to proceed most smoothly when performed as systematically as possible.

“I thought it might be beneficial for you to be able to explore this subject matter in an... altered environment.”

“ _Might_ be?” I challenge.

Rung glares at me from his desk with his elbows propped on the desktop and his fingers interlaced. I suspect he's trying to keep his irritation hidden, but he can’t hide his reaction from me. Especially not with those eyebrows.

“I made a...” he starts. “Calculated judgment, if you will. It is in my experienced and skillful opinion that this will be an important step towards resolution for you.”

I am pleasantly surprised. That is among the optimal answers he could have generated. He knows what I like to hear.

“Understood,” I concede. I shift my feet apart slightly and rest my servos in my lap. I want to appear less intimidating. 

The doctor flattens his hands against his desktop and smiles at me. It appears genuine. “Good.” Rung reaches for a datapad near the edge of his desk and begins to swipe at the screen. He’s not actually looking for anything. I’ve discovered it to be a common tactic. Doctors with expertise in the psychological and the cerebral like to distract their patients with the illusion of busyness. It is to make them appear more relatable. I do not find him relatable.

“For today, I wanted to discuss a more personal part of your past.”

I was certain of as much. The theatrics made it obvious.

Rung pauses and peers over his datapad at me, expecting some kind of reaction. “There was a colleague of yours’ from before the war. The two of you investigated a series of murders involving the growing Decepticon movement.”

I nod at him. “That is correct.”

Rung narrows his optics into slits for a moment. He’s still not satisfied. “Now, in an interview, Chromedome mentioned-”

“Tumbler,” I interrupt.

Once again, Rung raises an eyebrow at me. “Pardon?”

“Tumbler. We’re in private. I want to identify him as Tumbler.”

Rung tilts his head at me and leans back in his seat. The chair groans and squeals. “I must admit that’s not the area of contention I was expecting from you. Would you mind elaborating?”

It has been touted that ‘communication’ is key. The doctor himself told me trust is the most important element for these trials. I decide to ignore as many of the potential consequences as possible in favor of the gesture. It hurts. Not in the physical sense. I can most attribute it to some drivel Drift might spew. It damages me in some sort of mental or, Primus help me, a spiritual capacity. It exists, but it is extraordinarily difficult to attach a value to.

“Tumbler is his real name,” I explain. “It was how he was known before the war, and that is when he is most favorable for me to remember.”

“But he’s been commonly known as ‘Chromedome’ for millions of years, and you’re still most at ease when you identify him by his old name?”

There is no hesitation in my response: “Yes.”

Rung glances into his lap and scrolls a bit on his datapad, exhibiting a soft “hmmm” to himself before looking back up at me.

Trust. Honesty. ‘Playing it straight’ as _he_ would say. Being honest only seems to incite provocation or condescension. It’s so much simpler to just take what I want.

“Why is it more comforting for you to remember him as ‘Tumbler?’” Rung starts lightly tapping his index finger against the datapad.

I pause before answering. In this circumstance, it’s easy to be honest since the doctor will know if I’m lying anyway. “We were sociable then. We enjoyed each others’ company.”

“You don’t talk to each other anymore?”

“We speak to each other. We’re not sociable,” I clarify.

“Alright,” the doctor concedes. “We can call him Tumbler for today.” He taps a few notations into his datapad. It appears to be the first productive act he’s performed it since I arrived. “You mentioned that his career as Tumbler is when he is most comforting for you to recall.” Rung looks up from over the datapad and tilts his head at me. His voice is suddenly very deadpan. “What about when you discovered he was alive? When you saw him recovering in the triage facility after he was attacked by Overlord. That was not a favorable memory of him for you?”

“Not the most favorable.”

“I see.” He types in approximately two more lines of notes. “In that case, let’s inverse the scenario, shall we?” Rung leans forward in his chair, elbows back on his desktop. “If Tumbler was killed during Overlord’s attack, do you hypothesize that learning of his death would be your most painful memory of him?”

My optics drift from the doctor’s face, down the creases and panels of his desk and to the carbon-colored floor beneath. It’s not as if I have to ponder the answer; I am simply not proud to say it. I look back up at Rung. “No, it wouldn’t be.”

“Do you want to talk about what is your most tragic memory of Tumbler?”

“No.”

“Very well.” Rung rasps the ends of his fingers together several times. “What about divulging some of your more soothing recollections of him?”

I shift in my seat, resting my head against my knuckles. “I... would be willing to do that.”

“That’s good.” The doctor smiles at me. I’m convinced it’s genuine.

I smile back.

“What sort of events come to mind?”

“Tumbler would frequently make us a priority. At the time, I often interpreted him as simply being selfish; putting himself before our duties.”

“How did he go about this?”

“Hah,” I snickered. “One time he called our superior and claimed that, due to ‘complications in the field,’ I would be unfit to serve until I made a proper recovery. He made me take a day off.”

“It sounds like he used some rather desperate tactics to get through to you.”

“I didn't leave him many options.” I sigh and cross my legs.

“Do you think his efforts were successful?” Rung is reclining in his chair again, now holding his datapad against his chest.

“That depends on how you measure his ambitions.”

“Fair enough,” Rung said with a nod. “So, can you tabulate that for me? What do you think he wanted?”

I’m staring into my lap, gripping the arms of the chair. “He wanted me to prioritize us as an obligation...” I compliment my statement with a pair of air quotes. “...above our services as officers of the law.”

“Why are you so certain?”

I look up at the doctor. “He told me.”

“And you didn’t agree to this?”

“No. I thought I did. I told him I did. But my perspective was too... limited. I was a fool.”

“And you regret the decisions you made that circumvented the integrity of your relationship?”

That is an almost comforting way of putting it. He’s patronizing me. I simply nod at him.

“I’m surprised by this. That’s always been quite an admirable trait of yours, Prowl: your dedication and loyalty to maintaining order and keeping the peace. You’re not proud of yourself?”

I straighten my posture and uncross my legs, slightly tilting my head in the doctor’s direction. “You’re putting abstract qualities on display, and attaching them to me. I can’t even tell the difference between what I want and what someone else wants. I thought he was simply too proud, too vain to accept the mnemosurgeon relocation. I thought he just didn’t want to admit he was willing to be apart from me so he could do what he wanted.”

“But he _didn’t_ want to be apart from you?”

I tap my index finger against the arm of the chair a few times, and glance at one of the blinded windows behind Rung. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to avoid this. “No,” I answer. “He didn’t. And then one senate recommendation later he’s shipped off to an Institute with no choice in the matter and made into a lobotomist.” I pause for a moment, and fold my arms. It’s oddly exhausting; telling someone things I’ve never told anyone. I don’t think I’ve ever even ordered these thoughts so clearly in my mind. “So doctor, you suggest that my dedication to duty should be the subject of pride and hubris? You’re telling me that I should _admire_ myself?” I narrow my optics at the psychiatrist. “Or would you advise me to _change_ , and discard my miserable qualities that will win us this war?”

Rung leans against the arm of his chair and curls his fingers in front of his mouth. He looks away for a moment and lowers his hand before fixing his optics back on me. 

“I think I’d better excuse myself early tonight,” I say. I push myself up from the chair. Rung gives me a slight nod as I turn for the door. I hear him sighing as I leave; it’s cut off by the automatic swooshing door that closes behind me.

I guess I gave him plenty to consider for our next session.

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to Deers, Loco, and Veit for being awesome beta-readers and helping me finally finish this!


End file.
